Monday, February 25, 2013

During the
second-to-last episode of The Real
Housewives of Beverly Hills, Adrienne anonymously referenced a member of her
“camp.” Now I can’t stop alluding to or thinking of my family, friends, and verifiable
allies as a camp of my own.

A handful of campers
and I have been recreationally discussing the concept of karma - how it rears its
head, substantively and procedurally. Like most Libras, I stand for balance and
justice, and am not ashamed of my reputation for flaring up at the sight, sound,
or scent of patent unfairness. So my confidence in karma, even without knowing when
it will strike, consoles me.

Inexplicably bad
things happen to good people all the time. I used to believe that bad things only
happened to the innocent and misfortune never met up with the mean-spirited or exceptionally
thoughtless ones – until I repeatedly witnessed how the process of evening out plays
out over time. Karmic justice is a work of fine art.

Via our actions
and inactions (big or small, deliberate or ignorant), we steer a lot of our
personal destiny. Some of the good things I’ve done have come back to bless me and
some of my not-ideal behavior has come back to bite me. When someone who has a notorious
history of unreliability complains, shell-shocked, about a frustratingly undependable
new addition to her camp, I’ll listen and won’t say much but that doesn’t mean
I don’t realize what’s going on. And when I find out that somebody has underhandedly
screwed over a person who didn’t deserve it, I can only be tranquilized by playing
Kanye’s “Let’s have a toast for the douchebags” song a few times and reminding
myself that the larger story is still unfolding.

Monday, February 18, 2013

After sweeping up
a floor full of freshly broken glass in my apartment the other night, I knew hardship
was still on the horizon. I just couldn’t predict exactly when or how.

I pricked a finger
on a microscopic shard of that glass while cleaning my kitchen yesterday. A bloodbath
ensued and my least favorite towel was sacrificed for the cause, serving as a
tourniquet until I could control the gushing gash with a band-aid.

When I took off a
glove to pay for some housewares later in the day, the band-aid peeled off with
it. As I reviewed the receipt on my way out, the piece of white paper began to turn
red. Tourniquet #2.

I went into the drugstore
across the street for more band-aids. A multi-page sale flyer was folded up on a
shelf in the First Aid aisle. Tourniquet #3.

Although I can make
a scene while waiting for a train that’s running 10 minutes behind schedule, when
there’s a legitimately panic-worthy, but concealable, emergency/budding scandal
on my hands (pun not originally
intended), nobody else would be able to tell that something’s wrong.

I used all of my
good hand, and one finger of my bad hand, to open a box of band-aids and
replace the flyer with one of them – a delicate balancing act, designed to avoid
getting anything on store property and having to face a “you bleed on it, you
buy it” policy - before lining up to check out.

This whole time,
the store’s pharmacy was closed. At 5:30 p.m. In the City That Seems to Get More
Sleep Than I Do.

Monday, February 11, 2013

The
day I finally become self-employed, my first order of business will be to take
a trolley to the jeweler’s store and get a nose ring. I spent most of yesterday
in the neighborhood where I tentatively plan to have the procedure done.

This
is something I should have gotten out of my system during my late teens/early
twenties/first major drifting period, but I had too many preppy, conventional influences
buzzing in my ear at each of those stages. After a member of my circle spontaneously
got an eyebrow ring when we were in college, she called her dad to give him a
partial update. He flipped out.

The
Proud and the Pierced: “It’s not like I have any interviews coming up.”

Her dad:
“Every day you go to class, it’s an interview!!”

My
own parents’ reaction would have been scarier. It’s unsettling to think about,
even in hypothetical retrospect.

I
have a lot riding on the next 7 to 12 months, and there’s already enough that screams
“non-conformist/potential troublemaker” within 10 minutes of an in-person
conversation with me. A face piercing would take the ticket overboard.

A prep
I hadn’t seen since college sported a stunning, glinting stud in her nose at a
party a few years ago – that wasn’t there when we still fell into the traditional
coming-of-age bracket. And she works in an industry that’s more conservative
than mine.

Monday, February 4, 2013

I’ve wanted to take
an uber-stimulating international vacation by myself this winter to check out a
whole new scene, moving at my own tempo, with no one slowing me down or
speeding me up. The dream began to disintegrate within a few weeks of its
conception, as I resented the airfares associated with the first five or six cities
that I came up with - and still do.

Last weekend, a
vision of Istanbul popped into my head and wouldn’t pop off. I saw myself
getting jacked up on strong Turkish coffee before strolling through a souk to
bargain for spices, bracelets, and rugs. I love a souk state of mind, and the prices
of the Istanbul flights seemed too reasonable to be true. The only thing keeping
me from pulling out my debit card and snapping one up was the uncertainty about
traveling alone in that part of the globe. I have a female friend who’s been to
this city on business and for pleasure. She considers it safe enough, but I
decided not to go.

The very next
day, one of the first news bulletins I read reported on a 33-year-old New York-based
woman who was vacationing solo in Turkey and had gone missing. Her husband and
brother were flying to Istanbul to help with the search efforts. A couple of
days ago, she was found dead, near some ancient ruins, and another vision planted
itself in my head – the day an unescorted woman can even semi-carefreely take
advantage of a cheap flight that’s headed to any spot on any map won’t dawn in my
lifetime.